“It is good for you to be charitable,” I told him. “Loyal villagers make better workers than unhappy ones.”
“Maybe it is good to be charitable when you are rich, but it is a right foolish thing to be when you cannot afford it!”
I had sat through enough of Emont’s business meetings to know that his statement was true. “Perhaps you could reason with Lady Alba? Tell her to bring some provisions to the parish church instead?”
“Reason?” Emont snorted scornfully. “One does not reason with Lady Alba.”
It was not proper for him to speak to me so familiarly, but it was not unusual either.
“Why not hunt for venison?” I was still thinking of Christmastide at the abbey.
“I have no license, and this land is all royal forest hereabouts.”
“Lady Alba could ask her sister. The king is generous with the abbey. And he would not deny a license to his cousin, particularly not at Christmas.”
“Second cousin. You do not see us getting visits from the king,” he said dryly. “But it is a good suggestion. That might suit my lady very well. She is an excellent horsewoman.” Emont smiled for the first time in days.
Lady Alba did organize a hunting party, and I observed their return through the warped glazing of a window in the great hall. I was taking advantage of the master and mistress’s absence by walking with Ella through the empty house when a wavering blotch of color crested the brown hills near the orchard. A fragment of scarlet streaked away, and quite suddenly Lady Alba was galloping toward me at full speed, a mere stone’s throw from the window. She pulled her horse up sharply just in front of the manor; the bay mare reared, beating the air like a charger in battle. Tendrils of pale hair whipped in the wind, and the lady’s red cloak billowed and fluttered behind her. Her face was flushed, and her smile was wild and triumphant.
When Emont plodded into view, he looked stodgy and grim in comparison. His wife tossed some words to him over her shoulder, and then she threw her head back in laughter. Emont’s countenance soured further.
I did not wait to see what quarry they had caught, because I had no invitation to be in the great hall, and I did not want to be discovered. I later heard that they had killed two small red deer. Much of the meat was preserved for Sir Emont and Lady Alba, but there were plenty of leftover innards to make pies for the villagers.
The banquet at Aviceford Manor was a strange affair. The great hall was decorated with garlands of holly, ivy, and bay, and scores of candles glowed in the wall sconces and on the tables. These, along with a hearty fire, made the room festive and welcoming. The people of Aviceford were not used to such finery, however. They entered bashfully, hesitating before taking a place at the long tables, and then they whispered or sat in silence, as in church.
Lady Alba wore a green silk kirtle of a hue that flattered her milky complexion; jewels sparkled at her throat and on the gold net caul that bound her fair hair. She swept through the aisles that divided the long tables, loudly commanding the villagers to eat more and be merry. Every man, woman, and child paused with head bowed as she passed by, in direct opposition to her bidding. She continued to bawl cheerfully, unobservant, stopping every now and again to take some wine. Emont sat alone at the oak table on the dais, sipping his drink and pecking at his food, ignoring his wife’s behavior.
I left Ella with Joan in the solar so that I could find my brother and sister. After taking in the scene from the top of the stairs to the great hall, I descended nervously. My mind had recoiled from thoughts about Thomas and Lottie since our awkward exchange at the church, and I was reluctant to touch a wound that had not yet healed. Though we were bound by blood, we had grown so far apart, as though we no longer spoke a common language.
I closed my eyes to be rid of the image of Thomas and Lottie walking away from me, but the devil played a trick. Behind my eyelids, I saw not my brother and sister, but Charlotte and Matilda, their backs to me, receding in the distance. My heart pounded and my hands grew slick. My children were younger than I was when I left home. Would they become estranged from me too? I had feared never being reunited with my children, but to lose our attachment would be a worse fate, one I could not bear.
I found Lottie when I reached the bottom of the stairs. She was sitting halfway across the room, her head bent low over her plate, eagerly shoveling food into her mouth. Next to her sat a tall, spare man, her husband. He was feasting with as much determination as Lottie; I could not make out his features well, except for a beaklike nose that pointed toward his trencher. A skinny girl of about six years sat next to him, and while I watched, she dropped her spoon on the floor. The man cuffed the back of her head so hard that her chin crashed against her breastbone. She did not cry out, and the man resumed eating.
I looked back at my sister. What did that sallow-faced woman have to do with me, or with the Lottie I remembered? She had been depleted, used up by the exigencies of her family and the costs she had paid for mere survival. Her life had unwound too quickly, and there was nothing left to look forward to other than the gnawing hunger of winter and more children who would die before they were grown. The same would have been true for me had I stayed.
I made my decision swiftly, strangling a nascent bloom of horror. I ran back up the stairs, knowing that I would not see my brother or sister again.
Joan sat in the anteroom to Lady Alba’s apartment, braiding her hair by the light of a guttering candle. She was surprised that I returned so soon. “Did your family not come?” she asked.
“Nay, they did not come. You should go down now and eat some food. I shall watch over the baby.”
“She will sleep now through the night, I expect. You could come too. I heard that there will be a minstrel after supper.”
“I am tired, and I have heard minstrels before.”
Joan, who was still a little bit in awe of my former life, did not attempt to persuade me further. She finished braiding her hair and left for the great hall. I checked on Ella in her cradle and then sank onto the bed in the anteroom. By the light of the candle, I could dimly make out the painting beside the armoire. Gisla had confirmed that the portrait was of our mistress as a child, seated on her favorite horse. The girl in the painting had a serene expression, so different from Lady Alba’s today. I wondered whether the demon that had possessed her as a young woman had been only partially exorcised, whether the shadow still lived within her.
My mind pulled at its traces like a stubborn mule, trying to turn my thoughts back to Lottie or my daughters, but I would not allow it. I carried the flickering candle into Lady Alba’s chamber, treading cautiously in the weak aura of light cast by the flame, for there were often unexpected obstructions where the lady had tossed some garment or bauble on the floor. A movement by the bed startled me, and I spilled a blob of hot wax on my wrist; as I choked back my cry, I realized it was only a looking glass that had been propped against the trundle. At the bedside, I found the object of my search, a carafe of wine that was still half full. She would not remember in the morning how much had been left. I poured myself a large cup and then settled back on the bed in the anteroom, pulling a blanket over my shoulders. A strain of flute music drifted up from the great hall below. The minstrel had begun the evening’s entertainment. I gulped the wine, hoping to escape into sleep. Ella would be up before dawn, demanding her breakfast.
When the door swung open, I knew that something was amiss. Even Lady Alba would not bang the door so loudly, for fear of waking the baby. Emont stood on the threshold, swaying slightly.
“Won’t you invite me in?” His voice had a bitter edge that he had not used with me before.
“Of course, my lord, you are at home,” I said soothingly, rising from the bed. “But your lady has not yet returned.”
“I know. She is dancing with the whoresons she invited into my home.”
“It is not unusual for the lady of the manor to organize a Christmas feast for the villagers.”
Emont raised hi
s voice. “She is debasing herself and my name by mingling with rabble and scum!”
I did not point out that he was associating with a servant.
Emont stepped close to me after closing the door behind him. He smelled of cloves and sweat and the bilious sour-sweetness of drink. He pushed his flat, leonine face nearer to mine. “You are beautiful,” he said more softly. He reached for me and wrapped his hand around my neck, trying to pull me to him. I resisted, stepping backward, which caused him to stumble sideways into the armoire. There was a loud crack as his shoulder struck the door of the armoire heavily, and then he heaved himself upright again. I held my breath.
Emont glared at me with his fists clenched. Though I had heard nothing from Lady Alba’s chamber, I said, “I think I hear your wee daughter crying. I must see to her.”
I took the candle and ducked into the other room. My breath came quickly, and my hands were shaking. I had the urge to smash my fist into Emont’s face, but that would cost me my position, and I had nowhere else to go. Acceding to his advances could be just as disastrous for me, and the idea of letting him paw me was revolting.
I went to the cradle, where Ella still slept. Resentment surged as I looked at her. She was so scrawny and strange. She turned her head away from the light and mewled. I would take her with me, because Emont would not trouble me if I was holding his precious daughter.
The moment I picked her up, Ella began to cry. I brought her to Emont, and I was surprised to find him sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. His tangled hair hung forward and hid his face from my view. When he looked up, his expression was sorrowful, and a little bewildered, and I pitied him. He was the same awkward Emont who begged for my company daily. I sat beside him and shifted the baby onto his lap. She reached for the tips of his curls and quieted.
“You see how she adores her father. She is always content with you.”
I could hear the trace of a smile when he answered, “She is an angel come down to earth to comfort me.” He caressed his daughter’s cheek. “You take good care of her.”
I thought guiltily of how roughly I had just pulled Ella from her cradle. “I do try.”
“Her mother is not suited to the task.” He paused, and then sighed. “Neither am I suited to be a father.”
“You are more devoted than any father I have known! You visit with her every day.”
“Her mother is busy spending Elfilda’s dowry on silk gowns and trinkets, and I can barely furnish the food for a Twelfth Night celebration from the money we bring in for the manor. What kind of life am I going to give my daughter?”
Emont was so wealthy by the standards I had known that I was appalled by his self-pity. “Your daughter has her mother’s beauty, the good name of her father, the blessings of her godmother, and she will never want for food,” I said curtly.
He looked up at me, blinking, as though dazzled by a sudden light. “I must seem ridiculous to you.”
“Oh! Not at all, sir, not at all.”
“You know what it is to be hungry, don’t you? To work for your living. Not to be free. You must think me so ungrateful.”
I squirmed, not knowing how to respond. Emont took an eccentric interest in my brewing experience, but I had never before had the impression that he viewed me as a fellow mortal. No master does.
“I hope you don’t think me a drunken popinjay. I suppose I’m not dressed well enough to be a popinjay. And I am drunk.” He snorted softly. Emont kept his head bowed for a moment and then handed Ella back to me, saying, “I should go.”
When I took the baby from him, she began to cry again. I bobbed in a shallow curtsy. “Good night. I shall bring Ella to you tomorrow.”
On his way out, Emont staggered and took a bruising knock against the door frame. As I closed the door behind him, I felt a measure of disgust, but I also had an urge to call out to him, to say something that would ease his mind or provide some small comfort as he fell asleep.
The next morning, Emont did not acknowledge our meeting in Lady Alba’s chambers. The pouches under his eyes were pronounced, and he was more disheveled than usual, but he chatted as though nothing had happened. I had expected him to be embarrassed and to treat me coldly, but the opposite was true. From that day forward, Emont took me into his confidence more than he ever had, sharing his frustrations with the manor and the demands of the abbey. I came to understand that he relied entirely on the information and advice of the chamberlain, the bailiff, and Mother Elfilda’s steward, and that he did not review the books himself. He was like a boy who had not memorized his Bible verse and hoped nervously that the priest would not call on him. Although he had authority over all but the steward, he lacked the confidence to gainsay their decisions, possibly because he feared being discovered as ineffectual. He pretended to grasp the details of the manor’s finances, but he had never applied himself to learning them. I wondered whether he had the capacity to learn them even if he was willing to try.
I knew enough from running a brewery to be able to understand household accounting, and I was frustrated with Emont’s lack of insight. I asked him to show me the books, and he seemed eager to accommodate my request. Days went by, however, and the chamberlain did not bring the accounts for me to review. I asked Emont again, and he told me that he would remind Wills. Finally, I grew tired of waiting, and I approached Wills myself.
I found the chamberlain in the kitchen, upbraiding a scullion. I waited until the end of his harangue, and then I called to him. Wills’s eyes narrowed when he saw me. “Yes?” he asked.
“Sir Emont has asked me to review the household books.”
His round face colored. “What business is it of yours? Since when does a nurse review household accounts?”
“Since our master asked me to do so,” I replied mildly.
“I don’t have time right now.”
I stepped closer, so that he had to lift his chin to look up at me. “If there is something that you would rather I did not see, then it is not a good idea to play games with me now. I shall see those books sooner or later, and when I do, you may wish for me to be pleasantly disposed toward you. I suggest that you get them now.”
The red in his face spread to the roots of his ginger hair. He glared at me and then turned away. “Very well,” he said, “I shall bring you the scroll for the past year.”
It took me three days to finish combing through the accounts while Ella took her naps. The pattern that emerged was of incompetence more than petty thievery. While Wills had probably padded some of the expenses in order to set aside an income for himself, his greed was not the biggest problem. There was obvious waste in purchasing items that could have been produced at the manor, overstaffing the kitchen, failing to make use of animals that had been confiscated from tenants or collected as heriots. There were senseless extravagances, most likely at Lady Alba’s behest. Taxes and fines were not being consistently levied, and when they were, they were not always being collected. I did not have details from the bailiff about sales of grain and produce, or about fees collected for use of the mill or ovens, but I could see from the income column that whatever it was, it was not enough.
I spoke to Emont about my findings, and he asked me to join his meeting with the chamberlain and the bailiff, who was known among the villagers as Black Bear, or simply Black, for his large size and dark hair. They were already at the table when I arrived carrying the scroll; Wills shot me a glance that was both worried and hostile, and Black tipped his head almost imperceptibly in greeting. A woolly beard partially concealed the bailiff’s expression, but there was no mistaking the coldness in his eyes.
“I invited Agnes to point out some unnecessary expenses she discovered in our accounting,” Emont said apologetically.
“How could she possibly know what is necessary and what is not?” Wills said.
I opened the scroll and smoothed it over the table. “Let me show you some ways you might save a few shillings,” I said briskly. “Then yo
u can get on with more important matters.”
The bailiff grunted, and Wills crossed his arms, frowning at the parchment.
“You see what you have spent on flour just for December?”
“We had the whole village here at Christmastide,” Wills said, “of course we needed flour!”
“Look at November, then. It was no better.” I turned to Black. “How often do we accept promise of payment for use of the mill?” I knew from Matilda’s godparents, who ran the mill in Old Hilgate, that debts did not always get paid.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Wills asked peevishly.
I ignored Wills and kept my gaze on Black, who shrugged his broad shoulders and said, “I don’t know. Perhaps four or five times each month.”
“Those people haven’t the money to pay. What if they don’t have money the next month either? Do you let them use the mill?”
The bailiff glanced uncomfortably at Emont. “Sometimes.”
“They have no money, but they do have wheat or barley. What if you took a portion of their milled flour?”
“The villagers already harvest grain on manorial land.”
I pointed to the ledger. “And this is what you spend to buy your grain back from the abbey. If you take flour as payment from the villagers’ allotments, you can bypass the abbey altogether.” I turned back to Wills. “How much flour do we lose to mouse infestations and rot?”
Wills reddened. “I don’t believe that is a problem.”
All the Ever Afters Page 19